


Crossroads

by tari_roo



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural
Genre: Community: intoabar, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Sheppard walks into a bar and meets... Crowley</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossroads

_*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*_

The Tropicana bar on McMurdo base was nestled in a no-man’s land between the older buildings of the base. No one really claimed it, or pretended to fund it, and yet it thrived in the sub-zero temperatures. Perhaps drawn by the weakly ironic name, the vagrant and transient residents of McMurdo flocked to the Tropicana in droves and herds, finding cheap but good booze, companionship and warmth in the Antarctic night. 

Late in the afternoon in the middle of the week though, the Tropicana resembled any bar around the world, sad, lonely and depressing in daylight. The warmth was gone, sucked out by the absence of people and laughter. The décor was no longer cute and amusing, instead the splashes of paint were half hearted and garish, the coconuts and palm trees reduced back to plastic imitations that had seen better days.

Pathetic and exposed as a fraud in cold, clear, daylight, the Tropicana suited John Sheppard’s mood to a tee. The vodka, while not his favourite drink, was cheap and plentiful, thanks to the newest arrivals on base and Sheppard sipped his drink morosely, both eyes on the muted Eurovision popfest on the tv over the bar. He studiously did not look at the thick set of papers on the bar before him.

Abruptly the door blew open with a crash, and a far too cheerful voice cried, “Well, isn’t this festive?”

John flicked a lazy glance in the new arrival’s direction and mentally rolled his eyes. Some overly excited British scientist, overdressed in thermal underwear and thick orange snow gear. “Barkeep, two of your best!”

Sheppard groaned internally. He was the only other person in the bar, aside from Rob, the barman. Before he could summon enough ‘leave me the hell alone’ vibes, the stranger plopped himself down on the stool next to Sheppard, jacket rustling. He twisted in his seat and grinned at Sheppard, “So what brings you to the frozen ass side of the world?”

The guy’s smile was broad and friendly, and he oozed confidence, but his eyes seemed alight with a devilish mischief. Caught a bit offguard, and suddenly feeling very exposed, like his life was laid out in all its screwed up splendour, Sheppard blinked and said, “Helicopters.”

The answering smile was knowing, as if the man could sense all the layers of meaning and tragedy buried in that word. Caught like a deer in headlights, the man’s gaze was hypnotising and for a second, Sheppard was back in the desert, the sun beating down like a hammer, chest pounding with adrenalin and fear. The taste of blood and fear in his mouth.

“The name’s Crowley, Dr Crowley. I’m here studying … quarks.” Sheppard stared at the outstretched hand, heart beating like a train, instincts and experience screaming at him. _Run. Run. Run._ Sheppard shook his hand briefly, the man’s clasp hot and dry. Crowley’s smile was fixed and grinning, almost skull-like in its intensity. Rob laid two tumblers of whisky on the bar in front of them, a happy amiable smile on his face. Dr Crowley gently picked up the one closest to him, and smelled it, appreciatively. His smile was pure invitation. _Stay. Drink awhile._ Unable to truly quantify the emotions running through him, Sheppard shook his head and said, “Sorry, shift is starting.”

He snapped up the rest of his vodka, downed it, and grabbed the divorce papers that had finally found him half way around the world. He nodded at Dr Crowley and Rob, and staggered towards the door, fear snapping at his heels. He had no idea why the odd British guy freaked him out, but he did. The guy’s smile looked positively shark-like.

Sheppard felt Crowley’s gaze, hot and heavy on the back of his neck, like a wolf tracking prey as he threaded his way to the door. His mind whirling with confusion and raw fear, Sheppard reached the door, hand outstretched, escape seconds away.

“What’s that saying… when life gives you lemons, to hell with the bastards.”

Startled, heart pounding his ears, Sheppard turned back, inexorably drawn by Crowley’s words. Briefly it looked like Rob’s eyes were black, but it must have been a trick of the light as he smiled winningly back at him, eyes blue and clear. Crowley hadn’t turned around, his eyes were fixed on the TV, smiling contentedly at the screen.

“Real money spinner for me, Eurovision. It’s amazing what people will do to buy their dreams.”

The experienced, very much alive soldier within John tugged him towards the door, urging caution and danger. However, the hurt, bitter and disillusioned pilot, stuck in the middle of nowhere because the Brass were a bunch of dicks, stared at Crowley’s back, a strange hope blossoming.

Crowley turned, smile gone, face serious, but his eyes still danced with delight. He said clearly and slowly, the words echoing through Sheppard’s soul. “I can offer you the stars. Everything you ever wanted.”

Words like _how, what, why_ were stillborn on Sheppard’s lips, his heart thundering, pulse racing. It made no sense, none whatsoever, but something primal and primitive inside him stirred.

Outside the wind howled, a long low mournful sound full of desolation and emptiness.

Inside, awash with conflict, confusion and mixed fearful hope, Sheppard blinked.

 

*sga*spn*sga*spn*

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> Fin: yeah, yeah… you make up your minds gentle folk


End file.
